It falls unaware of number,
age or sway of crops
left standing. It does not wait
for the funeral tent

nor see the lightness of green
turn to earth-brown black.
It falls as fast
as knees are slow to bend
for palms to take root and grow
moans from the ground.  It takes

away as it falls -- walls over hands,
the sound of bones
before they float, eyes
among stones, the red coat of leaves --
until the mud stops, the clouds break
into gray.  The sky, an off-white, unseen

when the tent strained and held
all the black that could not stand
like crops that did not un-bend, un-shake
or run out of falling grains.

                            S.L. Corsua

* Hello, blog. Hello, poetry. I've missed you both.

posted by S.L. Corsua